Posts Tagged ‘Physical Therapy’

This is just rich.  I’ve been on the injured reserve at work since surgery.  I got a call last week from my nurse case manager, asking when I would be cleared for light duty at work.  Considering my current line of employ (see also:  the place paying my worker’s comp checks), involves a lot of awkward lifting and carrying– light duty would relegate me to being office bitch.

No biggie, with 50% strength back in Jill– and about 75% mobility– clerical work would be no issue.  Then again, I’d be put in close quarters with the boss for about 40 of my 50 hours in the week, but I’m not accounting for that blossom of “bliss.”   So after my rehab evaluation yesterday (never thought I’d be saying those words…), and getting the rough numbers above, I made a pit stop by work to let the boss know the good news.

Tell 'em Vlad

Even Putin wants to declare shenanigans…

The boss decided to inform me that they don’t want me back until I’m positively at 100%.  This is a complete 180 from company policy, let alone from the comp company’s standpoint last week.  If this shit was any more ass backwards, I’d swear I was dealing with a government office.

Seriously, the boss called me at least twice in the immediate two days after surgery.  I can’t be sure about the exact count, because I kept myself nicely buffered from both pain and reality.  That’s my explanation for the freak attack of CRS, and I’m sticking to it.  Regardless, they were up my ass in ways that would make a Thai hooker blush.

Now, when I’m able to perform most of my former duties, they want to keep me on the I.R. until my happy ass is up to tossing a couch on my shoulder and walking away with it.  You know what I have to say about that?

In the immortal words of DX

Don’t pretend that you don’t know the two words…

It would appear that something unusual is transpiring here, and I’m too much of a cynic to buy into the possibility that they’re looking out for my well being.  They didn’t care during the eight months that I worked with torn cartilage in Jill.

Something smells rotten, and I just took a shower this morning.


Well, after another physical therapy visit in the books, I’m showing marked signs of improvement.  That’s a damn good thing, because I’ve been working Jill like an underpaid amusement park employee.  Before you immediately follow my mind into the gutter (and rightfully so), do you have any idea how amusement park employees are miserably treated?  It took me less than 30 seconds to find a whole book about it, and believe you me– working at an amusement park like being cast into the Fourth Circle of Hell by your employer.  That’s another rant entirely, so enough of that digression.

Where was I?  Oh yes, making Jill do work.  My range of movement improves daily, to the point where I even impressed my therapist.  In the strength category, I’ve made a 350% improvement in my grip.  That number’s astounding, but when you consider that I went from roughly 9lbs of grip in my hand to about 32…  the percentage may not be quite as impressive.

Anyway, in spite of all of this, I have one teensy-weensy problem that Rosie still has to handle for me.  I can’t wipe my own ass right handed.

Shit tickets be damned!

So we meet again, oh necessity of those needing to make offerings unto The Porcelain Goddess.

I don’t know whether it’s the angle my wrist has to be, or the torsion of the wrist, or what it is– but Jill can’t be bothered to make the two-ply pilgrimage unto the brown eye without screaming in agony.  I mean, not that I blame her (all surgical repair work considered)– and it’s not like I’m running around with dingleberries a-ringing.  Rosie’s had my back(side) since Jill went into the cast.  I really should buy her flowers for her efforts, but that might give my girlfriend the wrong idea.  I just can’t get behind progress when progress can’t reach my behind.

Oh well, with that wonderful mental image seared into your cerebral cortex– it’s time for my 2pm wrist workout.

Don’t tell me you didn’t see that one coming.


I know I’ve been MIA like a green beret in Cambodia, however I’ve been reveling in my re-found freedom.  Yes, Jill is recovering at a decent clip, but that’s not why I’ve been shirking my rightful duties to you– my readers.  Anyway, back to bagging on myself, and my recovery.

So I’ve had three PT appointments this past week, and holy mother of God is it painful.  First things first, Rosie is by far the stronger of the hands.   If she were to get into a squeezing contest with Jill, Jill’s reconstructed wrist would hamper her by roughly 90%.  That’s the measurements from Monday 9/12/11, I have about 10% grip in my right hand.  Couple that with about 40% range of mobility, and I’ve got, as my therapist has put it, my “work cut out for me.”   Throw into the mix the fact that I still can’t straighten the damn elbow, and I’m a perpetually hurting unit (one tasked with constantly stretching and exercising joints that have been par-frozen by atrophy).  This means one thing:  yours truly is shitfaced on Norco more often now than I was when the good doctor took the proverbial scalpel to Jill.  Why yes, I’m also drinking, thank you for wondering!


The therapist has given me a ton of exercises, and a throwback to something that hails from many childhoods– silly freaking putty.   I’m not joking, and the best part is– my therapist actually got insulted when I called it by its true name.  Considering her level of indignation, you’d think the stuff was the bastard child of Rumpelstiltskin.  Naturally, I was even more thoroughly amused.

Silly putty, no matter what the color, is still silly putty.

A toy or a therapy aid, no matter what the color-- you can still copy comics with it, and bounce it off the wall! Best. Laugh. Therapy. Ever.

No, according to my therapist (geez, I sound more like a headcase than a basement-dwelling loser now… is that an upgrade?), this stuff’s therapy putty, not silly putty, because it comes in various “resistances.”  Are you freaking kidding me?  I’ve noticed one difference between the blue egg of “silly” putty that I had as a kid, and the green canister of “therapy” putty that I have now.  The only difference is the quantity and color (and I’ve got way more therapy putty).  Garfield’s face is sill a warp-able commodity!

However, all of these goofy ass exercises aside–  I’ve taken to one thing for therapy above all others: cleaning.   I was told to do my exercises twice a day, and I have been doing them as often as possible to speed recovery.  However, during the month and a half that I was away, the short stints I did spend at the pad accumulated a collegiate level of mess.  I mean Hell, I only had one hand that I could use, so why not use it to justify indulging in a cardinal level of sloth?  Man’s gotta keep sane somehow, and it’s not like the prescription/booze connection was doing it for me…

To say that the pad looked like a bomb hit it would be an understatement, however I’ve made a damn good amount of headway.  I’ve made myself a bit more work because I refuse to put dishes in the dishwasher.  Yes, I’m trying to (unsuccessfully) con myself into thinking that cleaning is therapy, especially since I’ve got my hands constantly in hot water.  You’d think I’d be worried about dishpan hands.

Who am I kidding?

Yeah. Right. I'll settle for copious amounts of lotion, thank you very much.


Oh well, I’ll do my best to keep as updated on the blog as I was when I was a lazy quasi-invalid.  In other news, I’ve lost 10lbs in 10 days with the Kamikaze Diet.  I haven’t even gotten into a regular exercise regimen yet, either.  Oh well, I’ll try to put more goodness up tomorrow.